Penang Bridge’s Whispering Winds

The bus shudders as it leaves the last stop in George Town, and I press my forehead to the cool glass. The city slips away behind me—lanterns flickering above clan jetties, the scent of char kway teow still clinging to the humid air, the laughter of Lily and Bell from two hours ago echoing in my ears like a song I can’t quite place.

I’m not crying. Not yet. But something in my chest feels like it’s unraveling.

The Penang Bridge stretches ahead—five miles of steel and silence cutting through the sea. It’s never felt so long. Or so short.

I glance at my phone. No new messages. Anna said she’d text when she got home. She didn’t. Maybe she’s already asleep. Or maybe she’s sitting by her window too, staring at the same moon I see now—pale, cracked like old porcelain, hanging low over the strait.

We didn’t say goodbye properly.

None of us did.

There was a gathering at Vivian’s rooftop—plastic stools, smuggled beer, Emma’s terrible guitar playing. We toasted to “not forgetting each other,” like we were already ghosts. Pye danced with his arms flailing like a malfunctioning robot. Hyuga just smoked in the corner, quiet as ever, watching us like he already knew this was the end of something.

And me? I laughed. Too loud. Too long.

Because if I stopped laughing, I might have started asking: Why does it feel like I’m leaving more than just an island?

I look down. My backpack rests at my feet. Inside: a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a photo of my mom and me at Batu Ferringhi when I was ten, a folded letter from Anna I haven’t read yet, and a tiny bottle of Penang sea salt Lily gave me. “So you don’t forget the taste of home,” she said, grinning.

I unscrew the cap now. Just a pinch on my fingertip. I taste it. Salty. Sharp. Real.

Outside, the wind howls over the strait, rattling the bus like a warning. The bridge sways—just slightly—beneath us. I’ve crossed this stretch a hundred times: to school, to exams, to meet Anna at the park near Queens’ Bay. But tonight, it feels different.

Tonight, the bridge isn’t just a road.

It’s a threshold.

And I’m not the same boy who walked across it last year, dreaming of escape.

Back then, I counted the days until I could leave—this island, this school, this life that felt too small for my dreams. I wanted skyscrapers. Oceans that weren’t familiar. People who didn’t know my name.

Now, with a one-way ticket in my pocket and a scholarship to prove I’ve “made it,” all I can think about is the smell of my grandmother’s asam laksa, the way the rain hits the zinc roof during monsoon, the sound of my father’s voice calling me anak when he thought I wasn’t listening.

Was growing up supposed to feel like losing?

I think of Emma, staying behind to care for her younger brothers. Of Vivian, whose parents won’t let her study abroad. Of Bell, who cried when I told her I was leaving and then punched my arm like I’d betrayed her.

And Anna.

God, Anna.

She didn’t cry. She just looked at me—those dark, steady eyes—and said, “Don’t become someone who forgets where the wind comes from.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I nodded.

Now, halfway across the bridge, the lights of the mainland shimmer like stars fallen into the water. Penang fades behind me—its hills dark silhouettes, its spirit tucked into every memory I’ve ever made.

I pull out the letter.

Eddy, it begins.

You always said you wanted to see the world. I hope you do. But if you ever get lost… just listen. The wind here carries voices. Ours. Mine. The island’s. It’ll guide you back, even if you never return.

I’m not saying goodbye. I’m saying: carry us with you.

—Anna

I fold the letter slowly. My vision blurs.

Below, the sea churns—black, endless, alive. The bridge hums beneath me, a low, steady song. The wind presses against the windows, whispering, You are still you. You are still ours.

And for the first time since I decided to leave, I believe it.

I may be stepping into a new world.

But I don’t have to lose the one I’m from.

I close my eyes.

The bus moves forward.

And I let the wind carry me—neither running away, nor turning back, but becoming.